Terpsichorean Tree

"That oak, she's a dancing lady," he said. And I could see her too; her gnarled limbs sprawling somehow gracefully out across the dewed meadow. Elegant, serene, calculated. It was past midnight, and the meadow was enveloped in fog and mysticism. The city lights were as orbs of dully glowing magma. It all aided in rendering us vulnerable to her. But upon closer inspection, resting in her arms, she was but a skeleton. Her foliage, once full and soft, had drifted away from her, not to return. Instead, her frame supported parasitic past lovers disguised as a yuletide novelty. She invited them once, and still carries them with her. Even in eternity - perpetually enamored.